


Just a Jump to the Left

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Series: girl!Sam-five ways [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, girl!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-10
Updated: 2008-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:52:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd known no good could come of this separation, because she's gone and grown up on him, become someone he doesn't know, and he's not ready to deal with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Jump to the Left

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to luzdeestrellas for making me make this a better story. And for putting up with my odd obsessions.

The locks on the apartment only look formidable; Dean gets them open easily and shakes his head at how flimsy they are. There's no salt on the threshold, no charms on the lintel to keep evil things out. This is not how Dad raised them. He'd expected better, and he plans to let Sammy know.

He crosses the floor quietly, and he's ready when Sam finally figures out he's there and attempts to tackle him to the ground. They swing and dodge for a few seconds--this is familiar, easy, and Sam's obviously out of practice. A sweeping kick and Dean is pinning her to the floor.

"Whoa, easy, tiger," he says when she tries to buck him off.

"Dean?" she asks, breathless. Dean laughs. "You scared the crap out of me."

"That's 'cause you're out of practice." Dean relaxes just a little. The body beneath his is different from the one he's used to, softer, curvier. He's suddenly aware that he's pinning a half-naked _girl_, and his body responds, even as his brain reminds him it's his sister.

In that second of distracted discomfort, Sam is able to get some leverage, roll them over so she's on top. Dean laughs again. "Or not."

Sam is still straddling him, and it's embarrassing in a way beyond just getting flipped by a girl, so he pushes at her hands. "Get off me."

They get up, and part of him wants to give her a hug, to hold her close and make sure she's safe, and part of him wants to hold her at arms' length and look at her, look at what three years apart has done to her. He goes with the second, because this is a new Sammy and he's not sure how she'll respond. He just stands and looks at her, cataloguing the changes. She hits the lights, and he knows she's doing the same to him.

She's always been tall and thin (beanpole, he used to tease her, until the day he heard the boys at school saying the same thing, and though she kept walking, head held high, he could tell by the set of her shoulders and jaw that she was barely holding it together. She caught his eye, and from that look he knew she didn't want him to interfere, but he did, because he was the only one who got to pick on Sammy. He gave those boys bloody noses and black eyes, and it was totally worth the three-day suspension for fighting, even if Dad and Sam didn't think so.), but she's filled out since he last saw her. Her t-shirt pulls over full, high breasts, and her shorts show off curvy hips and a pretty fine ass. He knows he shouldn't notice that, but he can't help it. He doesn't remember her being so, well, hot, for lack of a better word. In his mind, she's always been the little mousy-haired kid in the jeans with holes at the knees. Her hair--blonde when she was little, plain old hair-colored when she got older--is now pale blonde, curling around her face in a way that makes her look much younger than twenty-two.

"You look good," he says, gesturing vaguely.

She cups her breasts, knowing exactly what he means. "Freshman fifteen," she answers. "I'm probably the only girl who was grateful for it."

He's about to say something else when another girl appears--a hot blonde with perky tits and legs up to her neck. The rainbow underwear and the Smurfs t-shirt are just the icing on the cake.

"You didn't tell me you had a hot roommate, Sammy." He gives her an appreciative once-over. "You've been holding out on me."

"Sam?" she says.

Sam wraps an arm around the girl's shoulders. "Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jess. Jess, this is Dean."

"Your brother, Dean?" Jess asks while Dean is still trying to process that his little sister has, that his little sister is--

"Whoa, Sammy, your _girlfriend_? When did you stop driving stick?"

Sam huffs in exasperation and rolls her eyes like she's still fifteen. "_Dean_."

"No, no, it's cool." He flashes his killer grin at Jess, testing. "I love the Smurfs."

"I should go put some clothes on," she says.

"Seriously, I wouldn't dream of it," he replies, still grinning. Sam looks like she's going to kill him. God, he's missed her. "I need to borrow your _girlfriend_"--he doesn't mean to make it sound dirty, but he can't help it; Sam blushes--"for a few minutes, to talk about some family business. Nice meeting you, though."

"No," Sam says. "Whatever you want to say, you can say in front of Jess."

"Okay. Um…Dad hasn't been home in a few days."

Sam's mouth twists in disdain. "So he's working overtime on a Miller Time shift; he'll stumble back in sooner or later."

Dean wants to shake her, yell at her for being so thick, so disrespectful, but instead he says, "Dad's on a _hunting_ trip, and he hasn't been home in a few days."

That gets her head out of her ass. "Jess, excuse us. We have to go outside."

*

In the end, it isn't that hard to convince Sam to come along, and he's glad he did, even if all she does is sulk and whine for the whole drive. Feels right to have her in the seat next to him, bitching at him for his lead foot and his taste in music.

Her clothes aren't as baggy as they used to be, and he catches glimpses of cleavage sometimes when he glances over at her, the beauty mark on the swell of her right breast peeking out of her tank top and distracting him. It's weird, because she was never a _girl_ before, she was always just _Sammy_ (just _everything_), but now, when he's not paying attention, he'll look over and notice things he shouldn't, like that birthmark, or the way she smells, or how nice her legs are.

He'd known no good could come of this separation, because she's gone and grown up on him, become someone he doesn't know, and he's not ready to deal with that.

*

He doesn't know why he looked at his watch--it's not like he had anywhere he needed to be that night--but he'll always be grateful he did.

He was too late to save Jess, but he carried Sam out of another burning building, held her back--_kept her safe_\--when she tried to go back in to save her girlfriend, promised her everything was going to be all right when she cried in his arms.

Turns out Sam's not the only one who's been keeping secrets--Jess's family doesn't know about Sam, about them, so the Moores keep her on the outside of their mourning. Dean can't stand the hurt look on her face, or the blank one that replaces it when she notices he's watching.

He wonders when she learned to do that, hide everything, even from him. He remembers how open she was when she was little, how she'd talk to anyone, make friends with every waitress and schoolteacher they met in passing, remembers how that changed when she turned twelve and sullen, hormones hitting her like a Mack truck.

They stick around in Palo Alto for a week--there's nothing they can tell the police, and Sam can't seem to accept the comfort her friends are offering. She turns to him like he's the only one she recognizes, and he tucks her into bed every night in their motel room like she's still five and scared of the dark, sits awake watching her toss and turn, unable to sleep until she settles.

He drags her through Wal-Mart and Goodwill, shoves jeans and sweatshirts at her until she's got more than just the clothes on her back and the singed remains of her life for the past three years, and then he finally convinces her it's time to go.

*

It's a good thing there's no traffic, because Dean's not paying too much attention to the road. He keeps stealing glances at Sam. Her face is perfectly still and pale under the bright white strobe of passing highway lights. Her eyes are open--wide and staring--but Dean doesn't think she'd be seeing the traffic even if there was any to see.

"Earth to Sammy," he says, tapping her knee. "We can stop if you need to."

She turns to look at him, half her face in shadow. "No."

The fact that she doesn't correct him, doesn't snap, _It's Sam now,_ worries him more than he'll ever admit.

She's like that the first six weeks or so--shellshocked and grieving--and Dean mostly lets her be, tries to keep his worries to himself, though he knows he's not doing a great job at it. It worries him that Sam's too withdrawn to even notice, let alone tease him about it.

He offers to let her drive, picks fights with her about her hair, her taste in music, the way she takes her coffee, anything to get her to spark up and respond, to get angry. To be _Sam_ instead of this sad woman he doesn't recognize.

*

"Are you on the rag?" he asks as they check into the motel and she tosses her bag onto the bed beneath the window, lips curled in disgust at the ugly polyester comforters and the bad art on the walls.

"Are you a _moron_?"

He holds up his hands in surrender, glad to finally get some response that isn't a sigh of resignation. "I was gonna let you have the shower first, but if you're gonna be that way about it...." He shucks his jacket and sits down on the bed closest to the door to untie his boots, his back to her. It's not supposed to be like this, he thinks. She's supposed to be happy to be with him, even after everything that's happened. Not that he wanted her with him under these circumstances. God, just once he'd like to get something he wanted without someone else having to pay for it. This is why he's better off not wanting anything.

He can feel the mattress shift as she moves onto the bed behind him, and then her arms are around his neck and her chin is on his shoulder.

"Hey," she says, tilting her head to look at him.

"Hey."

Her mouth curls in a smile now; she rubs her nose against his jaw and presses a kiss to his cheek, her lips warm and dry against his skin.

Then she jumps up and runs into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. He can't even be mad, because it's the first smile she's given him in a week.

*

They're still getting used to each other's company, and sometimes he forgets she's all grown up now, or so she claims, even though she still gets excited about ice cream for dinner, and she makes him watch _Spongebob_ and _Simpsons_ reruns with her whenever they're on. She falls asleep in the car pretty often--the only sleep she gets sometimes--and usually he wakes her up and shepherds her into whatever room he's taken for the night, but occasionally, she throws her arms around his neck and insists he carry her.

She smells like baby powder and Ivory soap, and if he closes his eyes and breathes her in, he can believe she's still six and thinks he's the best big brother in the whole world.

*

They lie low for a week after the thing with the shapeshifter. Dean spends the time detailing the car, cleaning the weapons, and watching soap operas. Sam heads to the library. When she doesn't meet him for dinner the first night like they'd planned, he goes looking for her, finds the library closed. Sam is nowhere to be found, and there are no messages in his voicemail. He feels the sudden sharp clench of panic in his chest, his gut. He gets that she needs her space--they both do, living on top of each other the way they do--but he's afraid that one of these days, she's just going to take off and leave him behind again.

Her phone rings and he mutters, "Answer your goddamn phone, Samantha."

"Hey," she says.

The tightness in his chest eases, and his voice is appropriately annoyed when he says, "The library closes at three."

"Yeah. I ended up in the bookstore." There's a pause and then, "I'm sorry. I was reading and I forgot to call."

"Don't let it happen again." The words are out before he can stop them, and he tenses, waiting for her to start yelling about how she's capable of taking care of herself for a few hours.

She just says, "Oh, whatever," and he decides not to push it.

"I'm hungry."

"Spend less time talking and more time walking. I'll be ready to go when you get here." She's laughing when she says it, so he laughs too.

She isn't ready, of course. She's happily settled at a table covered with piles of books--things they're hunting, things they're not--and taking notes.

"Come on, Sammy. Time to eat." He ruffles her hair and grimaces at some of the titles she's picked out.

"Just lemme finish this chapter," she says.

"Sam."

"Only four pages left, Dean. It's on Akkadian summoning rituals. Could come in handy someday." She's always been hard to tear away from the books; when she was a kid and it was time for chores or PT, it was always, Let me finish this chapter first, and Five more minutes, please. It used to drive Dad nuts.

Dean sighs and sits down across from her, sorting through the pile of books she's accumulated until he finds a copy of the latest _National Geographic_. He flips through it, hoping for pictures of naked women, and finds an article on Mayan gods, which is probably why Sam is checking it out; Dean skims the story, wonders if disturbing the ancient king had sent his spirit walking, or if whatever rituals they'd buried him with so long ago had laid him to rest for good. There's also a story about the Grand Canyon and the people who live there. He skims through that one, as well. He's never been to the Grand Canyon, despite traveling the country end to end his whole life, but he'd like to go someday.

He knows she's finished the chapter she's reading and started the next, but he lets it go until his stomach growls loud enough to cause the teenage girls at the next table to glance over and giggle.

Sam giggles, too, in a way he hasn't heard in a long time, and closes her book. "All right," she says. "Let's eat."

Each night it's the same--he stops making plans, just shows up at the bookstore when he's hungry and drags her off to eat. The fourth night, though she's once again surrounded by books on the occult, she's reading _Valley of the Dolls_. He teases her about that for a week.

She still has his beat-up copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ stashed in the bottom of her duffel--he finds it one afternoon when he's doing the laundry, his name and _fifth period English, Mrs. Stouffer_ written on the inside cover underneath the red stamp proclaiming it the property of the Natrona County High School library, and then below that, her name, underlined with a flourish. She's never dotted her I's with little hearts or smiley faces, so he doesn't tease her about keeping it. He doesn't mention that he still has her copy of _Lord of the Rings_ in his duffel, though he's never made it past that goddamn Tom Bombadil chapter. When she dragged him to see the first movie, he'd been grateful that part wasn't in it.

He avoided the sequels while she was gone--Dad isn't exactly the type to take an afternoon off to watch freaking hobbits, even if they were on their own kind of hunt--but they pop up on cable all the time, and one day when TNT is showing all three in a row, he buys some snacks and insists they check it out.

She rolls her eyes and huffs that she's seen them all, without all the stupid commercials, but when he turns on the crappy motel TV, she's right there next to him on the bed, and it's like they're kids again, marathoning through the Star Wars trilogy or Indiana Jones, with a bowl of microwave popcorn in her lap and a bag of M&amp;Ms in his.

She sobs through _Return of the King_, which is weird, but he lets her wipe her teary eyes and snotty nose on his t-shirt when she runs out of tissues, and her smile afterwards makes his heart ache.

*

Sam is good at the puppy thing, at making people want to help her because she looks so damn lost with her big eyes and her tousled hair and her sweatshirts with sleeves that come all the way down to the tips of her fingers.

Dean chats up the bartenders and the women with inviting smiles and appreciative eyes, even the gay men on occasion, but whenever possible, Sam is the one who talks to cops and teachers, nurses and fathers of daughters, and blue-haired old ladies with a soft spot for a young woman with a lilting voice and good manners.

Sometimes she talks to the girls who have no use for Dean, the girls who like girls, and he tries really hard not to think about that, because she's his sister, not the star of some cheap lesbian porno, even if she looks like she totally could be. She never seems interested in any of them, though, and a couple of months down the line, he wonders if he should encourage her, tell her it's time to get back in the game. He doesn't, though. He doesn't think any of them could make her happy.

He's kind of relieved she hasn't shown interest in anyone, actually, because then he might have to lay the smack down on some asshole for macking on his sister. The few times he's done it, she's always bitchy about it afterwards, as if she doesn't understand that it's his _job_ to look out for her, and that includes warning away skanks of either gender who want to get into her pants.

When he flirts--and he always does, can't remember a time when he didn't--she usually watches him with amusement and exasperation and affection, but sometimes there's irritation in her eyes, and occasionally, something that looks like disappointment, which makes him feel like he's been punched in the chest.

Those nights, she fades into the background, goes back to the motel room by herself; the mornings after, she rolls her eyes and mocks his taste.

"You wish you were as lucky as I am," he says one day after enduring her comments about the blonde he'd left the bar with the night before, and something sparks in her eyes, makes them greener than brown.

"You don't think I could be?" she asks.

"I'm not saying that," he replies, because _of course_ people are lining up around the block to get with her, even if she doesn't notice them (and he's glad she doesn't), but he can't actually tell her that. "But let's face it, Sammy, I'm the pretty one." He means it as a joke, but she sits up straighter in the passenger seat, her jaw set in determined lines, and her lower lip stuck out in a pout. "Your face is gonna freeze like that," he teases, and after a few seconds of fighting it, her mouth twitches and she laughs.

Two nights later, they go to the bar across from the crap motel they're staying in, and when she unzips her jacket, instead of the heavy sweatshirt she usually wears, she's got on a tight white tank top that leaves her bellybutton visible. The bar is chilly, and it shows.

"Maybe you ought to keep your jacket on," he says, forcing himself not to stare, the way every other person in the place is, "since you apparently forgot the rest of your clothes."

She flashes a wicked grin--so like the one he sees in the mirror that it startles him--and says, "Beer?"

He grabs her wrist as she's walking off. "I'm serious, Sammy."

"Don't be a dick," she says. "And don't call me Sammy." He's not holding her tightly and she's not trying hard to get free, but some asshole in a pair of too-tight jeans comes over, looking to be a hero.

"This guy giving you trouble, miss?" he asks, all concerned politeness in his voice, but Dean can see the way he keeps glancing at Sam's body. He's having a hard time looking away himself.

"Not at all," she says, smiling. "Thanks."

"If you need help--"

"Why don't you mind your own business?" Dean says, voice cold, low, and dangerous.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam says through gritted teeth. "He's my brother," she tells the guy. "He's a little overprotective." Which makes Dean want to grind his teeth, because now they're never going to get rid of this guy.

"Well, if you're sure..." The guy trails off uncertainly.

"I really am."

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"We were just leaving," Dean says, slipping his hand down to curl around hers and squeezing so she'll know he means it.

She gives the guy an apologetic smile that makes Dean want to punch him, grabs her stuff, and lets Dean lead her away. When they're outside, she says, "There's another bar a few blocks down, Dean. Come on. I really do want a drink."

"We're going back to the motel first." She gives him a curious look. "You need to put a shirt on. And a bra. Jesus, Sam, do you _want_ me to beat the shit out of every guy in this damn town?"

"So you admit that I'm pretty."

"I admit you've got great tits," he says before he can think about it, and she gives him a quick but brilliant smile that makes it even more awkward than it should be. Then he stops, remembering their conversation the other day, and the awkwardness is forgotten. "For fuck's sake, Sammy, is that what this is about? You want to be the smart one _and_ the pretty one? Greedy bitch." She smacks his arm and because it doesn't hurt, he knows she's not mad anymore. "I am still the funny one, though," he warns, tucking their still-joined hands into his jacket pocket. "And the one with good taste in music."

"Bitch, please." But she laughs and leans into him, warm against his side, her head on his shoulder as they walk, and it's all right.

She keeps her jacket on in the next place, unzipped just enough to distract him occasionally with the hint of cleavage, and when they play darts, he can smell her lotion even over the stale beer and smoke smell of the bar. She gives him a run for his money, and he's not sure if it's because she's gotten better at darts in the time she's been away, or because she's deliberately trying to throw him off his game.

It's only later he realizes that it shouldn't have worked, that he probably shouldn't notice or care what his sister's breasts look like, or wonder what they'd feel like in his hands.

*

When they go to bars now, he's hyperaware of how men look at her, glares them off, and isn't subtle about it. She rolls her eyes and huffs, annoyed.

One night in a roadside bar on the outskirts of Tulsa, he's chatting up a hot blonde by the jukebox, and when he looks back, some unwashed hipster type is sitting in his spot, leaning in real close to Sam, who's looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and amusement that's usually directed at Dean. He discovers he doesn't like her looking at other people that way.

He pockets the blonde's number, knowing he's never going to call her, and heads back to the table, just in time to hear the guy say something about the rampant sensuality of Georgia O'Keeffe's work. It's such a blatant line that he snickers, and Sam kicks him in the shin.

"Seriously, dude, you've got to do better than that." Dean looks him over slowly, judges him a poser, soft and insignificant, not near good enough for Sammy.

The guy looks at Sam, who shrugs and gives him the kiss-off smile. "We were just leaving," she says.

"Can I at least get your number?"

Sam's smile disappears. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"I just want to call you, maybe get together this weekend or something ."

"We're leaving town in the morning," Dean says. "Won't be back this way again for a long time."

The guy turns to Dean, and Dean gives him his best don't fuck with me grin. The guy gets up and walks away.

"You didn't have to do that," Sam says when he's gone and they're leaving themselves. "You missed your shot with the blonde girl."

Dean shrugs. "There's always another girl, Sammy, and you looked like you needed help."

"I really didn't."

"Okay."

"You don't have to hover, Dean. Seriously. I'm all right. I'm not going to break. You keep saying we deserve to have a little fun, and I was just--"

Dean shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. "I didn't like the way he was looking at you."

She's silent for a long moment, and he hates that he can't read it anymore. Finally, she says, "Oh."

"Yeah."

She nods, as if to herself, and they don't talk for the rest of the ride back to the motel.

She's settled under the covers when he blurts out, "I thought you were a lesbian now." He knows he shouldn't interrupt her when she's trying to sleep--she gets so little of it these days, nightmares stalking her, keeping her awake and raising dark circles under her eyes.

"Bisexual," she says, her voice amused in the darkness. She gets out of bed, comes to sit cross-legged at the end of his, the way she used to when they were kids. "I like to keep my options open."

"That sounds more like me than like you."

"Maybe we're not as different as you think." She laughs. "You ever try it?"

"What? Sex with guys?"

"Yeah."

He waits a long time before answering, weighing the truth against the easy lie. "Yeah," he says finally. "Yeah. Junior year of high school."

"And not since?" She leans forward, elbows on her knees, and there's enough light filtering in from outside that he can see her forehead scrunched up in a frown of concentration.

He remembers the sour taste of sweat and spunk, the unforgiving planes of a boy's body pressed against his, so different from the soft curves he likes to lose himself in. "Nah. Discovered the only dick I really like is my own."

Sam laughs so hard she nearly falls off the bed, and he has to move fast to catch hold of her, keep her from tumbling to the floor. "I totally believe that," she says when she can finally talk again.

He settles her down next to him on the bed, close enough to share the same pillow, and says, "Go to sleep, Sam," and she does.

He lies awake next to her, listening to her breathe, for a few minutes, or maybe it's a few hours. He can't tell, and it doesn't really matter.

He wakes up with her hair in his mouth, her ass pressed to his hard-on, and her skin under his fingertips, warm and soft to the touch. He lurches out of bed as if he's been stung, and she shifts into his spot, seeking warmth.

"Dean?" she mumbles, not even opening her eyes.

"Gotta take a piss," he says.

She's already asleep again. He's tempted to climb back under the covers, make a joke about giving the girl from last night a call to clean his pipes, but he's shocked that all he really wants is Sam, warm and pliant in his arms. Not as shocked--and not nearly as horrified--as he should be, and that scares him more than anything.

It sends him out into the cool, damp morning for a run, but he can't outrun his thoughts. He shoves them down into the same place he keeps all the stuff he never wants to think about, and forces himself to focus on nothing but putting one foot in front of the other, and the rapid, steady beat of his heart.

When he gets back, she's up and dressed.

"That was the best night's sleep I've had in ages," she says. "Thank you."

"Whatever," he answers around the tightness in his chest. "Blanket hog."

She laughs and tosses the lid from her coffee cup at him, and for the moment, everything is back to normal.

*

They follow the leads Dad sends them, and when he doesn't send them anything, they find jobs themselves--a salt and burn in Missoula, an outbreak of imps in Santa Fe, a cursed necklace in Albuquerque. They fall back into the familiar rhythm he remembers from just before she went away, the give-and-take that's as natural as breathing to him, and as necessary.

They fight, because Sam wants to keep chasing after Dad, wants to get in on the vengeance thing instead of doing whatever job's at hand, and it worries Dean; he's always afraid he's going to wake up one morning and find her gone.

When she does finally leave, he can't stop himself, calls her a selfish bitch and drives away without looking back. He doesn't want to see her get on the bus to California, doesn't want to know that he's less important to her than chasing some demon they're never going to find. He doesn't want to think of her living for the dead, getting hard and weary like Dad is, doesn't want to think of the two of them fired by vengeance, burning bright and hot and fast, while he's always stuck on the outside, trying to keep them from exploding, and trying to keep himself from losing what family he's got left.

She comes back, though, saves his ass in the orchard, and doesn't let him forget it, either. Saves him again after the doctors only give him a few weeks after his run-in with the taser, but that they don't talk about. He carries the weight of Marshall Hall's death, Layla's continued illness, and Dad's absence, bears up like he always does, pushing down the guilt and the anger and making sure Sam's okay, because that's his job, and he can't fuck it up again.

He tries not to think about how Sam looks at him, how her jaw clenches and her eyes go flat with determination when she thinks he's hurt and needs her help, how she smoothed back his hair and kissed his forehead when she thought he was asleep in the hospital, and promised him she'd find a way to fix him. It made his chest all warm and achy then, and it does now, as well, and he knows there's nothing wrong with his heart.

*

They spend a lot of time digging graves, getting dirty, and he's down to his last pair of boxers and socks that have only been worn twice. He can't find his Pantera t-shirt, the one he keeps in the bottom of his duffel because it's old and full of holes but he can't quite bring himself to give it up, because he actually bought it at a concert, one of the few he's ever been able to attend. And it comes in handy when he's got nothing else to wear.

It's raining the night they salt and burn Maggie Pullman's bones, which means hours of sliding around in the mud, hoping the fire will catch. Dean's back aches, and his skin is cold and clammy, and Sam's teeth are chattering.

He lets Sam shower first; it's not worth the hassle of listening to her bitch about having to wait. She rolls her eyes and pads across the ugly carpet, shedding muddy clothes as she goes. He tries not to watch the long line of her legs, the curve of her ass in the skimpy white panties she's got on. He fails.

"That's my shirt," he says looking at the t-shirt she's wearing when she comes out of the bathroom, toweling her hair dry. "I've been looking for that shirt."

"It's comfortable," she replies. "I like it." She slips between the covers of her bed and grins. "You're free to borrow any of my clothes, if you like. Though I seriously need to do laundry."

He stares at her for a second, shakes his head, and slams the door of the bathroom behind him. Her stuff clutters the top of the toilet tank--makeup case, three different kinds of lotion (face, body, foot), exfoliant, special face soap she refuses to do without (Dad never would have put up with that, he thinks, but he always gives in on the little things, because he still feels bad about being glad she's with him on the road instead of still at school), black bands for her hair, lip balm.

He turns the water on and takes a piss, and then remembers he forgot to tell her what time to set the alarm. He cracks the door open and is about to say something when he hears the bedsprings squeak. He reaches for a weapon he's not wearing before he notices Sam's soft rhythmic gasps in time with the squeaking, and realizes what he's hearing.

He should close the door, get in the shower, and pretend he has no idea what she's doing. He knows that. It's not like it's never happened before, and pretending to be oblivious is what they've always done. But he can't help listening, the sounds burning into his brain. He's sure he'll never forget the low wordless noises she makes as she comes; they send a shiver of heat down his spine to pool in his belly and make his cock hard.

When she's done, harsh breathing subsiding into normality, he slips back into the bathroom, into the shower, so he can take his dick in his hand and stroke. He closes his eyes, leans against the cool, dingy tile, and replays the sounds of Sam's orgasm while he jacks himself. He comes with her name in his mouth, imagining her hand on his cock.

He turns the water as hot as he can take it, scrubs his skin until he's red and blotchy all over, but none of it can wash away the knowledge, or the guilt. The worst part, he thinks as he finally steps out of the shower and towels off, is that he knows he'll keep fantasizing about her now, even though he knows he shouldn't.

*

She leaves the shirt on his bed in the morning, and before he packs it away, he sniffs it, pretending it's like any other piece of laundry. He can smell her on it, and himself, as well. The combination is heady, makes him want to bury his face in it and breathe deep. Instead, he shoves it deep into his bag and hopes the scent marks everything he owns.

*

Sam doesn't know how to relax, and sometimes, Dean would like to put her through a wall because of it. She's been on edge ever since Cape Girardeau; her barely hidden hostility towards Cassie would have been funny if it didn't hurt almost as much as it weirded him out. Of course, Sammy's never liked any of the girls he's actually dated, so he should be used to it. He's surprised, though, because Sam's grown out of a lot of her sullenness, and she and Cassie have a lot in common. Maybe she liked Cassie herself, he thinks, and then he has to stop, because he really shouldn't get hard thinking about his sister fucking his ex.

A couple of weeks after the visit with Cassie, they're in Wilmington for a poltergeist, and they stop in at the bar down the road from the motel for a few beers to celebrate their latest triumph. Sam sets up at a table, newspapers and laptop spread out, and, beer in hand, starts trying to figure out where they should go next. She's good at it, has an eye for obscure patterns Dean sometimes misses, but tonight, he just wants to kick back, have a drink, and get laid (it's been way too long, and maybe if he scores with a hot chick, he'll stop wanting to fuck his sister), flushed with victory over the evil undead, and he's annoyed Sam can't just let him have that, even if she doesn't want it herself.

He's at the bar, talking to a redhead named Mandy, when Sam comes over and says, "Dean."

He doesn't even turn around. "Not now, Sammy."

"We have things to do."

Mandy smiles but it doesn't reach her eyes. "If you've got other plans," she says, clear from her tone that she doesn't believe it can possibly be true--her glance dismisses Sam (sweatshirt hanging down over her hips and hair in a loose ponytail--she doesn't even look old enough to drink) as a threat instantly--and before he can say he doesn't, Sam says, "Yeah, thanks," and grabs his arm. Mandy rolls her eyes and walks away.

Dean whirls to face Sam. "What the fuck was that?"

"I've found something," Sam says, fingers still digging into his wrist, and she's strong, but she's not as strong as he is.

He'll never shake her off. "Which we can't do anything about until tomorrow. You know, you don't want to have fun, whatever. That's fine. But why you feel the need to interrupt mine--"

"Cramping your style?" She scrunches up her nose. "It's not like there aren't half a dozen other bars with a hundred other girls around for you to fuck. Just--not when I'm trying to talk to you."

"Stop being such a girl."

"In case you hadn't noticed, moron, I _am_ a girl."

"Well, no argument there." Though he tries not to think about it--realizes he really never _has_ thought about it. She's _Sam_, and he knows her inside and out. Except, apparently, he doesn't, because he's got no idea what's got her panties in a bunch right now.

"_Dean_."

"Look, I don't--What do you want from me, Sammy? When I hang around, you yell at me for hovering, and when I back off, you get all bitchy. If this is some hormonal thing--"

She drops his hand like it's on fire. "Forget it." She walks back to the table, gathers up her stuff, and leaves. He hesitates for a moment, catches Mandy's eye across the room, but knows he has to go after Sam.

She's opening the door to the room when he catches up with her, and he expects her to keep bitching him out, but instead she gives him this _smile_, like she's happy for the first time in forever, and he has the feeling something isn't quite right, but he can't put his finger on what it is, so instead he kicks off his boots and sprawls onto his bed.

"I think there's a hockey game on," she says, pulling off her jeans and two layers of shirts until she's only wearing a wife-beater (she doesn't have a bra on underneath, and he knows he shouldn't notice that, but he does) and a pair of pink-striped bikini panties. She drops down beside him like she just didn't fuck up his plans for the evening. He ignores her, flips through the channels until he finds Skinemax. Nothing like a little soft-core porn to drive your sister away, he thinks, but she just keeps talking. "Just outside Providence," he hears, and something about nixies and teenage girls. Her voice gets soft and hoarse after a couple minutes, and then peters out altogether. When he steals a glance at her, she's staring at the naked couple pretending to have sex onscreen, lower lip caught between her teeth.

She turns to face him before he can look away, and her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and they just look at each other for the longest thirty seconds of his life before she jumps up off the bed.

"I'm going for a shower," she says breathlessly.

"You just took one--Oh." He does not need to be thinking about his sister jacking--or should it be jilling? and he can't think about that--off in the shower, not when he knows what she sounds like when she comes, when the thought makes him want to be in there with her.

She starts laughing, so he sits up and whacks her ass with the pillow. She grabs it and flings it back at him, hitting him full in the face.

"Oh, it's on now, bitch," he says, rising to his knees so he can reach out and grab her around the waist and pull her back down onto the bed.

He tickles her, and she beats on him with the pillow, until they're both breathless with laughter. He finally gets on top of her, stretching her arms above her head and pinning her with his superior weight. She bucks up, trying to throw him off, but he's not going to let go.

"Say uncle."

"Fuck you."

"You've got a filthy mouth," he comments nonchalantly, as if it's the easiest thing in the world keeping her pinned, trying to ignore his body's response to her squirming beneath him, nearly naked.

"Learned from the best," she answers with a fierce smile that makes him want to kiss her. She gets one leg free while he's distracted, but instead of trying to throw him off, she wraps it around his hip and rubs up against him.

It feels good, just like he's imagined. It feels really fucking _good_ in ways it shouldn't, because she's his _sister_, and _fuck_. He jerks away, flings himself off the bed. "What the fuck are you doing?"

She grabs the headboard and arches her back, laughing. She doesn't have big tits, but she knows how to use what she's got, because he can't stop staring at them, wondering how they'd feel in his hands, under his tongue.

"Winning."

He stares at her for a long moment--she's still grinning at him like she could eat him alive, and that thought shouldn't be making his cock twitch the way it does--and then he's the one who slams into the bathroom for some private time in the shower. He has the uneasy feeling when he comes out that she was doing the same thing in his bed, because the sheets smell like her when he wraps himself up in them. He doesn't sleep much that night, and when he does, he dreams of her.

*

He wakes to the sound of Sam moaning in the next bed, and when he looks over, she's curled in on herself, pillow clutched against her belly.

He doesn't wait for her to ask, just gets up, grabs the bottle of Advil and a glass of water, and brings them over to her. He sits on the edge of the bed and hands her the glass and the pills. "Is this a chick thing?"

"I think it's a vision thing," she says, and her voice is all scratchy, like she's sick.

"Okay." Dean's not sure which is more unnerving--periods or superpowers--but he's had more experience dealing with the latter, so he just brushes the damp hair off her forehead, and starts to get up.

She reaches out, grabs his hand. "Dean." The circles under her eyes look almost black against her pale face, making her irises greener than usual. She holds his gaze for a long moment, and he sighs and swings his legs up into the bed.

"Okay," he says again, "but I swear, if you kick me, I'm dumping you in the other bed."

"Whatever," she mutters, and snuggles up against his chest with a soft sigh of her own. He drapes his arm over her, and she keeps his hand clutched between hers.

Her hair smells clean and her skin smells like that damn fancy soap she made him buy, and he has the best night's sleep he's had in weeks, curled up around her, protecting her from the world.

*

They don't use the other bed after that, though out of habit he always gets a room with two queens. It reminds him of when they were little, and the only way either of them could sleep was curled up together, Dean on the outside, Sam on the inside, lungs breathing and hearts beating in time, feeling safer together than they ever did alone.

Of course, it's not safer now, but he doesn't want to think about that, just gets used to waking with Sammy in his arms again, scent of her hair in his nose and the feel of her skin under his fingers.

Which is where it starts to get out of hand, because he shouldn't be groping his sister, shouldn't be pressed up against her ass with morning wood, and yet he can't bring himself to start sleeping in the other bed again. The one time he tries, she just gets up and gets in with him, hurt look on her face stopping anything he might have said.

*

"Sam? Sammy? You all right?" The spring-heeled jack almost got the drop on them, flung Sam to the ground like a ragdoll and then slashed Dean up a little before he could put it down, but he's all right, and he needs to make sure Sam is, as well.

"Oh, God, Dean." She flings herself at him, her momentum shoving him against the wall, and covers his mouth with hers before he can say or do anything to stop her. His arms move automatically to hold her close, and she's kissing him like she wants to crawl inside him, hard and fierce. After the first horrified shock wears off, he kisses her back, hands splayed across her back, fingers rubbing at the strong bones of her spine, tongue slipping into the slick, wet heat of her mouth, which tastes of old coffee and wintergreen lifesavers.

She slides her lips along his cheek, his jaw, and he can taste salt on her skin, sweat, yeah, but also tears, and the thought of how close it was, for both of them, slams home. His heart feels like it's going to pound right out of his chest, and hers is beating in time, and they're both shaking a little. He swings around to press her against the wall and she climbs him like a tree, wraps her legs around his hips and her arms around his neck, kissing him like she's starving and he's an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Her low moan sends a thrill through him, straight to his dick, and it's then he realizes what they're doing, and why they can't. He pulls away, horrified, and though she tries to catch his eye, he refuses to look at her. He lets her down gently and takes a deep breath, willing his heart to slow down and his erection to go away.

"You all right?" he asks again, more scared by this than by the monster they've just killed.

"Yeah."

He glances over at her, makes it as far as her lips and has to look away. Not looking at her isn't helping, though, because he can still taste her on his tongue, feel her body pressed up against his. There's something obscene about the way they fit together perfectly, as if God is laughing at them.

"Dean, please--"

"Don't, Sam. Just--don't."

She reaches out, but he avoids her touch. She looks away for a moment, and he knows he hurt her, but he can't--they can't--

She gestures at the claw marks on his chest, and scrape on his forehead. "Dean, you're hurt."

"Nothing major. I'll bandage it up back at the motel."

"Dean."

He ignores her, speeds up a little, breathing slightly easier once the car is in sight.

It's quite possibly the longest ten minutes he's ever spent, and that's including that one time he thought she was dead when they helped Dad and Caleb take out some werewolves when she was sixteen. Back at the motel, she strips out of her damp, dirty clothes while he gathers the first aid supplies and heads into the bathroom.

She follows him, dressed only in her tank top and blue-flowered bikinis. "Dean, don't be an idiot." She grabs the washcloth, pushes him towards the toilet. "Sit down. Let me help you." He sits, tense and tired, and she purses her lips, then says, "You have to take your shirt off." The joke is on the tip of his tongue, bitter as ashes in his mouth, because an hour ago, he could have said, You're just like all the other girls, Sammy, can't resist this body, but now that he knows what she feels like pressed up against him, what she tastes like, he can't.

She washes the claw marks carefully, impersonally, all business now. He sucks in a breath because it stings, and she stops, goes into the bedroom and comes back with the bottle of Jack Daniels he keeps stashed in his duffel. He takes it with a grateful half-smile and tips it to his lips. The gashes aren't deep enough to warrant stitches, so she just rubs the Neosporin on and covers it with gauze. Her fingers are gentle and warm, and if they linger a little too long against his skin when she's finished, he isn't going to complain.

She climbs into his lap to wash the scrape on his forehead, and when he opens his mouth to protest, she presses a finger to his lips, and continues to work. "I'd kiss it better if I could," she murmurs, and he swallows hard. He can't figure out where to put his hands, or, he totally can, but knows he shouldn't. He does anyway, lets them rest on the fair skin of her thighs, soft hair she doesn't shave tickling his palms. It's her turn to suck in a shaky breath, and he holds her gaze, her eyes dark and intent as she washes his wound clean.

When she's done, she tosses the washcloth into the sink but doesn't get up.

"Dean, please," she says, hands clasped at the back of his neck.

She stares at him, vulnerable, hopeful look on her face, and he knows this is all kinds of wrong, for so many reasons he can't even begin to think about, but he's wanted it for a while now, and if she wants it too, he can't say no. Not if it keeps her with him, and makes her happy. He'll hold onto that for as long as he can.

He hooks his hands beneath her knees and yanks her forward so she can grind down onto him. He can feel how hot and wet she is even through her panties and his jeans, and she swallows his moan with a kiss, her hungry mouth moving over his, a fury of tongue and teeth.

She pulls away long enough to shuck her tank top and bra, lets him finally get a good look at the tits he's been imagining for months, and more than a look--he cups them, warm and firm in his palms, and leans in to lick at her tight, pink nipples, enjoying the way she gasps and squirms on his lap.

"I've wanted to do that for ages," he confesses against the warm curve of her breast; he can feel her heartbeat racing under his lips, feel the laugh burble up in her chest.

Her hands stroke through his hair, pressing him close, and she drops a kiss on the top of his head. "What took you so long?"

"Sam--"

She tips his face up, puts a finger to his lips. "I know, Dean. I know every single reason to stop." She kisses him, sucking on his lower lip and licking her way into his mouth, pinpricks of heat bursting under his skin. "I don't want to."

He doesn't either, so he pushes all his objections down, locks them away with all the other shit he never wants to think about, and thrusts his tongue into her mouth. He's sure he'll start freaking out as soon as they're done fucking and he can think straight again. Right now, he just wants to _feel_.

She quivers when he thumbs her nipples, arches and moans as he licks and sucks at them, and he wonders if he could make her come just from this, his mouth and hands on her tits. From the way she's rocking down onto him, he thinks he probably could, but now that she's given him the go-ahead, he wants to bury himself deep inside the tight, slick heat of her cunt.

Sam must be thinking the same thing, because she scoots back, starts unzipping his jeans. He flails out a hand, braces himself against the wall to lift his hips so she can yank them down, ignoring the pain in his chest. She shimmies out of her underpants and climbs back into his lap, one hand reaching behind him into her makeup bag to grab a condom. Her hands are trembling, but she rolls it on him with a practiced ease that makes him quirk an eyebrow. She grins, cheeks flushing pink, and he remembers teaching her how to do it with a Trojan and a banana when she was fourteen and skeptical.

"You sure?" he asks, giving her one last out.

In answer, she sinks down onto his cock. It's like loading a clip into his favorite gun, perfect fit, two pieces of machinery made to work together as a whole.

Sam fucks like she's firing a weapon, hard and fast and steady, her nails digging into his shoulders and her cunt tight and hot around his dick. She likes to bite, her teeth sharp against his jaw, his earlobe, the spot where his neck meets his shoulder; he's going to have marks, wants to leave some on her as well, small red bruises on the creamy skin of her breasts, the sharp jut of her collarbone. She tips her head back and moans, and he writes promises on her neck with his tongue, all the words he can't say, and hopes she understands.

He fingers her clit, loving the way she bites down on her lower lip, the stutter and hitch of her breath as her whole body stiffens, and then she's coming, clenching tight around him and pulling him along for the ride, bright hot oblivion rushing up to meet him. The world goes white for a few seconds, pleasure radiating through him in waves, and the only thing he can think when his brain starts working again is _Sam_.

She kisses him, open-mouthed and laughing, then buries her face in the crook of his neck. He can feel the sting of his injury, the pull of adhesive against his skin, and the weight of her body cradled by his, like it was always meant to be.

They hold each other quietly until Dean's heart rate is almost back to normal, and then Sam raises herself up and off of him. "Come on," she says, sliding her hands down his arms to hold his, pull him up, "come to bed, Dean."

And he does.

There are so many things he wants to ask her, but he just tucks her close to his side and breathes her in, shampoo and sweat and sex, closes his eyes and thinks, _Sam_.

"I thought, if I went away," she says, answering the question he can't bring himself to ask, "I would stop wanting you." Her cheek is against his chest, so he can't see her face. "Being with you again--God, Dean. You don't even know." She laughs again, breathlessly, joyfully, and squeezes him tight.

"Yeah, I do," he says, kissing the top of her head. "I really do."

She falls asleep, and he lies there for a while, listening to her breathe.

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> most of the dialogue in the beginning comes directly from the pilot.


End file.
